This Jack Straw had lint locks that glistened under the moon; the lashes of his eyes were white. His was a dry utterance.
“'T is a villein hath run from his hand's-breadth o' soil,” answered Langland. “One of many.”
“I plough, I reap, I ditch,” said Peter; “somewhile I thatch. I am of Devon.”
“They have a quaint device of thatching in Devon,” quoth Jack Straw.
“Ay, they set a peak like to a coxcomb above the gable. Art a Devon man?” asked Peter eagerly.
“Nay, but I be thatcher. I learned of a Devon man. 'T was the year next after the great pestilence. Like thee, he had run.”
Wat Tyler had been pacing up and down, but now he stood before his host and asked uneasily, albeit his voice was bold and harsh:—
“Will, what's thy meaning,—that I shall die disappointed of my kingdom?”
“Ah, Wat, Wat!” said Langland, “and wilt thou lead the people? And wherefore?”
Jack Straw edged farther within the moonlight and peered into his comrade's dark and lowering countenance:—